The second post had brought her some letters, a few bills and receipts, a note from Janet Philimore with whom she kept up a casual correspondence, and a long untidy screed from Lydia. Lydia had conceived the idea of visiting Medlow. Her father, old John Freke, whom she had not seen for years, was ailing. What did Olivia think of the notion? Olivia, sitting in the little ivy-clad summer-house at the end of the garden, thought less of the notion than of the amazing lady. To ask her, an outsider, whether she should come to her father’s bed of sickness! She made up her mind to write: “Oh, yes, come at once, but wear the thickest of black veils, so that no one will recognize you.” Her mind wandered away from the hypothetical visit—London and Lydia again! Just where she was when she started. Life seemed a hopeless muddle.
“I’m sorry,” said Myra’s voice breaking suddenly on her meditations. She looked up and beheld Myra more than usually grave and cold. “I’m sorry to disturb you. But I’ve just had a letter. He’s dead.”
Olivia, with a shock through all her being, started to her feet.
“Dead. My husband?”
“No,” said Myra. “Mine.”
“Oh!” said Olivia somewhat breathless—and sank on the bench again. She recovered herself quickly.
“I’m sorry, Myra. But after all, it’s a merciful release.”
“God’s mercies are inscrutable,” said Myra.
So, thought Olivia, was Myra’s remark.